On the Passing of my Grandfather

May 2019

My grandfather, who passed away this week at the age of 93, was cremated in India today in accordance with Hindu customs. He spent his career as a teacher in Nairobi, Kenya, but spent the vast majority of his retirement years in his ancestral village of Dharmaj, India. I remember when Shannon and I went there a few years ago and I innocently asked him, "Grandpa, where were you born?" And he looked momentarily confused but started laughing and said, "I was born right there," pointing across the room from where I was sitting. Yes, in the home that was more than 100 years old, in the village where our ancestry goes back more than 500 years, and in the home where he passed away earlier this week surrounded by my family, including my dad and aunt, who felt the tug to selflessly take care of him in his final weeks.

My grandpa was a math teacher (or "maths," as he called it, in the British tradition), and when he wasn't teaching in school he was tutoring students. The meager earnings he made were saved towards his children's education - and he was very proud that they went on to become doctors. Maybe it was a similar hope for his grandchildren that took him to the USA after he retired from teaching. My brother and I were obnoxious pre-teens when my grandpa and grandma moved from Kenya and into our home in Michigan. Talk about culture shock: I think he was as surprised by two kids riding bikes through the neighborhood, watching Nickelodeon, and eating pizza as we were by his old-world austerity, for every day we met the same fate: after school he'd wait for us to come home and have a snack, and then we’d get down to business... we’d sit down with him at a desk, he’d sharpen a pencil (he was of that generation that found a pencil that was worn all the way down to the eraser to still be perfectly useful), and then he’d line computer paper into a grid (using a ruler, of course) to be used for problem sets. Only then would the day’s math lessons commence, with no calculators allowed. And we wouldn’t do the math homework we had for school the next day; instead we worked our way through a borrowed textbook from school for the following year’s math lessons.

I was pretty bad at math back then, and I’m even worse now, and yet I know he loved me anyway.

My grandpa was a simple man, and I think that's what pulled him and my grandma back to India. We'd see them every few years, mostly at family weddings. Shannon and I would call often and have the same basic and endearing conversation: “How are you doing? How hot is it there? What are you doing?” We pretty much knew what he was doing, as he lived his life like clockwork. He woke up at the same time every day and then set forth on the same tasks: stretches and a walk, followed by the same getting ready routine, the same trip to the farmers’ market, and finally the library, where he’d catch up on the day’s newspapers. But even with his rigid discipline he also had a razor sharp wit, and he would always find a way to tease me or make us laugh. And he had a good heart. On my last trip to India I remember he pointed to my grandmother and then acknowledged her strength, sacrifice, and love, and gave her credit for everything he accomplished in his life.

I always enjoyed my Grandpa's stories. We never quite bonded over math or over music, but I especially enjoyed his stories about teaching. A few years ago I asked him if he enjoyed being a teacher, and I'll never forget his response. His eyes lit up and he said "Oh, yes, I enjoyed it but I was also strict. I taught over 5,000 students over my career and I think the only reason I've lived this long is because my students are still giving me blessings to this day."

I could go on forever about my grandpa. But perhaps if you've made it this far you can do me a favor in his memory and reach out to a teacher that has meant something to you in your life and drop them a line to say hello or to thank them. Because I'm sure it's those same blessings and memories that have kept them going as well.

I will always remember many things about my grandpa, but this photo I took in 2015 is my favorite. What I love about this photo is perhaps the thing that bonded us together the most. We spent our lives continents apart and immersed in two different cultures and two different professions. But there he is, the teacher. The man in his sweater who loved going to the library- who loved to be surrounded by books, surrounded by knowledge, and loved to share that with those around him. It turns out he and I weren't so different after all.

Sameer Patel